Neal, Or Emperor Nero? (PG)

[hawksandfeathers]

Title: Neal, Or Emperor Nero?
Rating: PG
Summary: This silliness happened after I read about Emperor Nero.
Warning: Character death, parody/crack

---

"Aaaaaand Tortall is going dooooown!" The man strung placidly on his old lyre and chuckled as Tortall burst into flames. The very palace was sagging, and still

His Majesty Nealan of Queenscove endeavoured to surpass the northern yodellers with his singing. Unruffled at the shouting around him, he adjusted his robe

and used its advantage to puff out his chest. "Oi! You!" he called to a screaming spectator on the smoking grounds. "I applaud your recognition of Your Majesty's

talents. I think you deserve a promotion."

The man couldn't hear and only shook his head despairingly. 

At that precise moment Prime Minister Merric jumped through a cracking hole in the facing palace wall. At the sight of his sire's hair out of its traditional widow's

peak, he moaned and tore at his own hair. "Where is the Lady Knight Keladry? Augh, where is she when we need her?"

"No, Merric," said Neal, dragging his words out in a practiced drawl, "Don't leap off the building; I can't afford a cleaning crew. Can you guess what I did with the

silver?" He grinned widely. 

Merric's famous temper began to warm up. You put some copper into it, didn't you? I should have known. Right under our noses, all along! And now - and now -

" He lunged at Neal, trying to grip the man's neck with his ruddy hands. Only Neal, who had the unique power of royal dismissal, promptly threw Merric off him

and proceeded to lament about the lack of burial space. 

A guard chattered his teeth at him, trying to get a good grip on the falling marble of the balcony. His Majesty's emerald eyes appraised him good-humouredly and

the guard heard him say, "But who cares about burial space?" before the poor man fainted, a soldier and all.

Nealan the King laughed again and expounded, "Oh, what merriment! what incomparable drama! ah! it is gorgeous!"

Secretly Neal wondered if Volney Rain was around. Maybe the man could paint a rendition of this wonderful spectacle. A moment later, surprised that he had

considered it, he shook his head with contempt. Paint, and all the rest of the arts, were trivial compared to stage. So he would star in a play, he resolutely

decided. A play in which he was the hero and savour of everything. He had longed to be in a production since before his bizarre coronation, at which his advisers

had only allowed a little dramatic flair. He had protested, but to no avail. With glee, he set to the preparation at once. After all, he had connections. Even if they

were singed ones.

--

His remaining advisors had reacted with a mix of weariness, fear, and caution - an essential virtue in advisors which Neal detested. 

"Everyone will laugh at you," they told him, "And you're the king. It's not right for you to show yourself in such a way. And it is detrimental to our alliances.

Think of the accounts in the Tortall Gazette! No. You cannot do this, sire."

Neal crossed his arms. "I learned stubbornness from Alanna, and I will make use of it. You lily-livered men tiptoe around everything. Why do you think not of the

uproarious clapping thunder resounding throughout the stage? Why do you think not of the fragrant flowers to be crushed under my nose?"

"I can think of a lot of things that can happen under your nose," a severely wounded Merric muttered blackly.

"You know," Neal said thoughtfully in response, "I don't even understand in the least why I placed you in the senate. I think I'm gonna follow old Roald's idea

and give Starsworn a chance at it."

"Your horse?" Everyone recoiled at this absurdity. 

"Oh, yes," Neal said, "I shall see it happen tomorrow."

The advisors sighed collectively.

"And," Neal added as he turned back, "Make sure the drapes are washed."

--

Neal lumbered onto the stage with sweat-soaked worry, but he really needn't have - everyone was guffawing at his bloomers. He looked around bewilderedly and

assured himself there was nothing wrong with his outfit. He must look unfocused, though. Maybe that was the reason why no one was listening to his

monologue with rapt attention. (According to him, that rapt attention was a package deal when it came to his speeches. It was inevitable, and he mused about

putting a warning on the door for it.) He bravely smoothed the fabric of his vest down and began to sing despite the whispering. 

Of course, the audience adored it - wait, was that a "boo"? No, he vowed he would never hear such a sound. And then more started filling the stage! Like bats

they were, or howler monkeys! Too bad, he thought regretfully, that he didn't bring bananas to pacify the curs. 

"But you don't need bananas!" he shouted aloud, and the din stopped altogether. A candle flickered once and a pin dropped.

"Uh, Majesty, we all think you're bananas," a man said from the back, and everything exploded into chaos.

--

"Ah! The play was a failure! I am a failure!" Neal moaned through a crevice in his burnt palace. "Balor's Needle is the only possible solution to end this agony, this

- this mortification! I am so misunderstood. It is lamentable." And he would have lamented had he his lyre, but it had gone down the river. So he said, "What an

artist dies in me!" and waited for Lord Wyldon's eager commission to be executioner.